


In which Eames is professional and Arthur is efficient and that somehow leads to rimming? IDEK

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Ridiculous, Rimming, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'This,' says Arthur with some temerity, 'is possibly the stupidest extraction I have ever been involved in.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Eames is professional and Arthur is efficient and that somehow leads to rimming? IDEK

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cherrybina's Arthur/Eames Rimming Meme. 
> 
> Original A/N: This is partially inspired by Puckling's icon. I have no idea what I'm doing. I have never written rimming before. Or participated in one of these kinds of fests. BE GENTLE WITH ME. 
> 
> (A/N four years later: ahaha, oh past!me. Inception fandom was such an eye-opener for you in so many ways.)

'This,' says Arthur with some temerity, 'is possibly the stupidest extraction I have ever been involved in.'

'It was your choice to take up with me when Cobb dropped out of the game,' Eames reminds him, peering around the dreamscape for their mark. 'And you planned it, Arthur, from the mirror ball to the ingenious paradoxical lavatory, so you have only yourself to blame.'

'I have your being too much of a cheapskate to hire an architect to blame, you mean,' Arthur mutters, scanning the dancefloor.

'You're quite capable of building a one-level dream,' Eames points out. 'Aha, there we go. Mark at ten o' clock, darling. Let's get this show on the road.'

'We talked about that word.' Arthur is just tetchy because the mark is a thirty-four-year-old heiress (going on seventeen) and has a repressed desire for group sex and an unfortunately not-repressed desire to drink stupidly-named neon cocktails in bars full of glitter and UV lights, which means that Arthur's suits have been vetoed and he is wearing _jeans_. In deference to his sensibilities, though, they are extremely well-tailored jeans.

Eames catches Arthur around the waist as they head out onto the dancefloor and says _'Darling,_ it's all part of the cover.'

'Darling,' Arthur replies, grinning in a way that is distinctly unnerving, 'If your hands drop even an inch lower, I have no problem with shooting you in the balls when this job is done.'

If they put that on the posters, workplace sexual harassment would be a thing of the past. Eames makes sure his hands are very definitely above the belt.

***

They have followed the mark from dancefloor to bar to dancefloor to bar, attempting to get her drunk and get her phone-number, which should then get them into the safe in the bar manager's office. She's drunk, alright, and appreciative of the pair of them, but she's being reticent about her number.

Ten minutes of her whispering in Arthur's ear later, Eames finds out that this is because she's not particularly bothered about there being a second date, as it were.

She giggles and pulls Arthur to his feet, and then Eames, and then she's off down a seedy looking corridor Eames doesn't remember from the original plans and-

'- you put a _seven minutes in heaven room_ in the build?!' Eames hisses, scandalised. They're following her at enough of a distance that he can hiss in a scandalised fashion and hopefully not be overheard.

Arthur does the eyebrow. 'You were the one who told me the way in was through her libido,' he says calmly.

'I didn't mean literally.' Eames tries to regain some balance and calm here. This won't be the first time he's screwed his way through an extraction, and it isn't even that the idea bothers him that much, it's just ...

... it's just that this is Arthur. Arthur is, is ... he is like a fish. You know fish have to have sex for there to be more fish, but said sex takes place at a sensible, hygienic and un-emotional distance from either of the fish involved.

Eames decides he's never working with this chemist again, they have clearly put something off in the compounds if Arthur is proposing a threesome and he, Eames, is rambling about fish.

This is a job. They are going to do the job. And then when the job is done Eames and Arthur are going to have a long talk about how even if it's the most efficient way to get an extraction done, one does not volunteer one's colleagues for threesomes, because they already spend enough time running and hiding from all things Freudian.

***

'This,' says Eames some time later, muffled into a pillow and with Arthur's long, hard fingers spreading his arse wide open, 'is not how I expected this evening to go.'

'Oh honey, hush,' says the mark from the other side of the bed, where she is apparently enjoying the view very much. 'He's very good.'

'Just lie back and think of England,' Arthur says in that bland voice that means he thinks he's making a funny joke, and leans in.

It's a dream, that's the only way this could possibly be happening, dream-clean and dream-convenient, Arthur's tongue hotter than fire where Eames's skin has chilled, saliva dripping fat drops down to the sheets. Eames can't help but bite the pillow in shock at how good it feels, and he registers as if from a great distance the appreciative sounds that their target is making at their little show.

This is supposed to be the end of it - they'd taken turns at her until she flopped to one side, exhausted and overstimulated, and Eames thought that was going to be the end of it. He'd rolled over and was just about to get into how amazing it was and would she like to do that again some time, here, she should put her number in his phone - when she said, 'Now you two, I wanna watch.'

So the finale instead is this, this bizarre playing out of something Eames has only barely touched upon even in his most unprofessional moments - that he's attracted to Arthur, that he'd like to sleep with Arthur.

Arthur humming and licking and nipping between Eames's arse-cheeks never even factored, Arthur's tongue bearing broad, flat lines that shiver and twist strings all the way through Eames's body was never _thought_ about, inconceivable, impossible; if Eames had even tried to get somewhere with Arthur, he would never have guessed that Arthur ... that Arthur would ... that Arthur liked ...

Eames is aware his sentences are becoming less coherent and less frequent, that his brain is somewhere else entirely, he's leaking, his dick dripping hard between his thighs as Arthur's tongue is dripping soft and wet between his cheeks, mumbling something, shifting his knees around, and then he takes hold of Eames, and all rational thought flees.

When it returns, Arthur is wrapped around the mark, whispering something in her ear. She bridles, coquettish, but appears to give in to whatever he's asking. He takes something from her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as he does so, and slides off the bed. Eames has just managed to get his trousers back on when Arthur pulls him out of the room, and then they're walking as calmly and collectedly as you can after something like that. Eames feels a shake in his knees that has nothing to do with the fact that projections are starting to look at them suspiciously.

Arthur speeds up, taking Eames's hand and pulling him along. There's a piece of paper in his palm.

'Safe's in the office, second floor,' he mutters, and shoves Eames in the direction of the stairs with the scrap of paper clenched in his fist. 'I'll head them off, you get the goods.'

***

When Eames wakes up, the usual startle-reaction to being, in this case, stabbed through the chest with a curtain-rod, Arthur is already awake and getting things in order.

'Next time,' Eames says, 'I'm getting a bloody architect.'

Arthur turns. 'Next time,' he counters, 'I shouldn't have to build a secret sex-room into a dream just to give you a fucking clue.'


End file.
